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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731966">The Heartbreak Behind Closed Doors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind'>DarkShadows_EvilMind</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Lonnie Byers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abuse, Child Abuse Disguised as Corporal Punishment, Corporal Punishment, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Drama, Gen, Good Sibling Jonathan Byers, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lonnie Byers Being an Asshole, Pre-Canon, Protective Joyce Byers, Will Byers Needs a Hug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:47:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731966</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows_EvilMind/pseuds/DarkShadows_EvilMind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After their divorce, Joyce thought having Lonnie around sometimes to help with their boys wouldn't hurt. It was good for kids to see their father, right? Maybe she'd been naive... Or maybe she was just flat out wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Heartbreak Behind Closed Doors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lonnie Byers doesn’t hate his ex-wife, he just can’t stand the woman. I mean, c’mon! The bitch was <i>unbelievable.</i> He let her keep the house, didn’t even fight her on custody of the boys, helped with bills when she couldn’t keep the damned lights on—and now this.</p><p>Now she wanted him for a fuckin’ babysitter, too. What was the point of kicking him out of his own damned home, screaming and bawling about divorce, when he was here five days a week running himself ragged, making himself late to work, all so she could “pick up more shifts.” Probably out screwing around with Hopper if Lonnie had to guess. Just like old times.</p><p>Lonnie thought this to himself while he flipped through the mail that had been left on the end table by the couch. A bunch of bills and some pizza coupons (which Lonnie pocketed for himself—bitch couldn’t afford pizza, half the bills on the table were Past Due notices) along with some scribbled note about some bullshit with the elementary school. Lonnie could never read Joyce’s chicken scratch. </p><p>The smell of something burning struck his nose, another drop in the pool of his annoyance. </p><p>“What the hell’s going on in there? Didn’t your mother even teach you how to cook!?” Lonnie shouted, slapping the bills back down onto the end table.</p><p>“Sorry. Yeah, sorry,” came the voice of his oldest, frantic and coupled with the clanking of dishes and something rattling. </p><p>Lonnie stood still and listened, glaring at the doorway to the kitchen where he could see bursts and flashes of Jonathan moving around by the stove. He heaved out a sigh of annoyance and looked back down at the bills. </p><p>Damned woman was a mess, but his kids didn’t deserve to have the heat shut off. He dug a couple fives out of his wallet and tossed them down on top of the stack of envelopes and the scribbled note about Will – Bullying??? Mrs. S? – Hawkins Elementary 2:15. Money he needed for his own bills that were now going to be late because he wasn’t about to embarrass himself and ask his boss for an advance. No, sir! Lonnie Byers wasn’t a common beggar, even if his ex-wife was trying to make one out of him.</p><p>“Quit burning shit! Jesus Christ, that food cost money you know!?” Lonnie had had enough. It smelled so badly of burn and char that it was a miracle the smoke detector hadn’t started going off—if the bitch even had working batteries in any of them. </p><p>“S-Sorry. Sorry, Dad, uh… Jus-Just forgot to get out plates,” Jonathan was stammering, fidgeting just like his mom did when she was about to have one of her episodes. Thirteen years old and he acted just like the woman. The only splash of himself that Lonnie saw in the boy was his temper—and he did a damned good job keeping that in check when he was around. Joyce was too soft on the boys, always had been, and it was starting to show. </p><p>He’d given an attitude adjustment to his oldest last night when he got mouthy. Joyce tried to intervene then, of course, spouting off about how it wasn’t necessary. Lonnie gave her the ultimatum—either he put the boy in his place, or Lonnie could just go home and she could figure out breakfast and driving the boys to school herself. (Maybe she might like to ask the Wheelers for some favors again, maybe some more money, he’d tacked on—just to get under her skin.)</p><p>By the looks of things, he was about to have to give his youngest one, too. Breakfast was on the table, they had to leave in less than twenty minutes if Lonnie was supposed to get to work on time. Why wasn’t the little shit at the table?</p><p>“Where’s your brother?” Lonnie asked, shaking his head as he glared at the seat where the boy was supposed to be. </p><p>“Uh—I… I don’t know,” Jonathan said, twitching like a damned junkie while plating up burnt sausage and soggy, gray-looking scrambled eggs. “I got him up when I—Dad! Dad, no! Dad, <i>no!”</i></p><p>- - - </p><p>Jonathan hated it whenever Lonnie came over. He didn’t understand why his parents even divorced if his dad was going to be around all the time anyway. She claimed he was helping, but helping with <i>what</i> exactly, Jonathan didn’t know. </p><p>He often took credit for cooking breakfast, but the one day he actually “tried” making them food, Jonathan had taken a half-frozen waffle out of Will’s hands. Will had been trying to crunch through a frozen part, looking close to tears—scared to get punished for not finishing his meal. If you could even call it a meal…</p><p>All Lonnie ever did when he showed up was pick fights—either with Mom or with him. Like last night…</p><p>Jonathan would admit that he’d been a little out of line, but Lonnie deserved it. His mom hadn’t been home to hear what he’d said to Will over dinner, and Will was too afraid of getting in trouble or starting a fight to tell their mom about it. Sometimes, Jonathan was pretty sure Lonnie said the things he did just to make him mad—just to start a fight so he could take out his frustrations and call it “discipline.”</p><p>Hate and anger had Jonathan’s hands shaking as he made breakfast, listening to his dad dig through his mom’s stuff in the next room. Will was in his room still, getting dressed or finishing up the last bits of his homework. When Jonathan had gone to wake him, he was already up and sitting at his desk, hunched over something still dressed in pajamas. Jonathan warned him to hurry up because Mom had already left for work and Lonnie was taking them to school. </p><p>Will had given a sad, “I know” and continued with whatever he was doing. Jonathan trusted him to make it to the table on time and hurried to start on breakfast before his dad could yell at him. </p><p>He heard his dad grumbling louder and louder in the next room, slamming some drawer he’d opened and shutting off the TV. The gesture had the hairs on the back of Jonathan’s neck standing on end. If he was shutting off the TV, he was going to come into the room soon and see that Will wasn’t in his seat. </p><p>If Will wasn’t in that chair when Lonnie got in here, there was going to be hell to pay. </p><p>Jonathan looked constantly back over his shoulder, then back to the skillet, then back over his shoulder—heart rate spiking as he heard his father shuffling through more papers. </p><p>He couldn’t risk Will getting in trouble. Will was tiny and innocent and took days to come back from a stern talking to let alone one of Lonnie’s beatings. Jonathan would be sick if he had to sit across the table from Will while his little brother cried, in pain and fear, while Lonnie loomed behind them at the counter looking smug—eating food he didn’t pay for. </p><p>As quickly and noiselessly as he could, Jonathan rushed past the doorway while his dad’s back was turned and tapped at Will’s door before opening it.</p><p>His little brother was dressed at least, but Jonathan felt his heart sink when he saw a crayon in Will’s hand. He’d had a good dream last night, and if it were Mom in the living room and not their dad, he would be drawing at the table while telling them both all about it. Usually it was action adventure stuff involving his friends and their dog—sometimes Jonathan and Mom were there too, though Jonathan was pretty sure Will just added them in sometimes to make them feel included. </p><p>But, the fact of the matter was, it was <i>Lonnie</i> out there and not Mom. Lonnie who hated seeing Will doing anything artistic, the same way he hated it whenever Jonathan had his hands on a disposable camera. Wastes of money (the camera) and wastes of time (Will’s art). It was “sissy shit,” their dad would say in his deep, booming lecture voice.</p><p>“Will, c’mon. Breakfast’s almost done. You gotta hurry up.” </p><p>“I know. I’m coming,” Will said, sounding a million miles away—daydreaming about dragons and wizards, doing his best to be anywhere else but home with Lonnie.</p><p>“Well, hurry up. Dad’ll kill you if you’re not at the table.” Jonathan made it back to the kitchen in the nick of time to stop the sausage from burning too awful much, but no mistakes ever slipped past Lonnie. </p><p>“What the hell’s going on in there? Didn’t your mother even teach you how to cook!?” His father screamed at him. He made a sound like he knocked something over—a lamp maybe—but Jonathan was only trying to listen to his footsteps. He was straining to hear every step, every floorboard. He wanted to hear Will’s door creak open. He wanted to hear Will in the hall, but he was relieved to hear Lonnie staying put.</p><p>“Sorry. Yeah, sorry,” Jonathan answered, scraping hard at the burnt sausage sticking to the bottom of the skillet. He was so <i>angry.</i> Angry Lonnie was here, angry at Will for not <i>hurrying up,</i> angry at his mom for leaving them both here with this <i>jerk.</i> Why couldn’t the Wheelers take them to school? Will would get some extra time with Mike and he’d be happy. He didn’t see why asking a stay-at-home mom with nothing better to do and bags of extra cash laying around to give them a lift was such a bad thing. Why was it rude? Why was it ‘just not something you do, son’?</p><p>Jonathan scooped the ground sausage out onto a plate lined with a paper towel, cringing as a large piece fell beneath the spiral burner and started to smoke. He stared at it a moment, the skillet in one hand and the spatula in the other. It was smoking, but not catching fire. He didn’t want to reach in there and burn his fingers to fish it out. He needed to make the eggs still or Lonnie was going to come yell at him for taking too long.</p><p>He hurried to crack some eggs into the skillet, scrambling them and scraping at them to keep them from sticking despite the left-over grease from the sausage.</p><p>Jonathan’s heart was beating harder and harder as the sausage continued to burn beneath his skillet. There was more smoke rising, but no flame. He kept lifting the skillet to check, just to be sure.</p><p>“Quit burning shit! Jesus Christ, that food cost money you know!?” </p><p>Where was Will? Jonathan was on the verge of calling for him, but was afraid it would trigger a chain reaction. If he called for Will, then their dad would know he wasn’t at the table and might just go down to his room and lay into him. If he kept quiet, maybe Lonnie might not even notice. </p><p>“S-Sorry. Sorry, Dad, uh… Jus-Just forgot to get out plates,” Jonathan stammered, his eyes closing tight in a grimace as he heard his father come into the kitchen. He tried to hide his shaking as he hurried to get out plates and put them in three spots on the table. </p><p>“Where’s your brother?” The question punched Jonathan in the gut. It was spoken too calmly.</p><p>“Uh—I… I don’t know,” Jonathan answered, trying not to spill any more sausage or egg as he scooped the food onto their plates. “I got him up when I—Dad! Dad, no! Dad, <i>no!”</i> He heard the jingle of Lonnie’s belt buckle and almost dropped the skillet. The spatula clattered on the table and the skillet banged down on the table where it started to melt the place mat beneath it. </p><p>For the moment, Jonathan didn’t care—he didn’t even care about the smell of burning plastic. In fact, he hoped it got Lonnie’s attention drawn onto him.</p><p>“Dad, please! <i>Please!</i> He’s just getting ready! Dad—Dad, don’t!” Jonathan chased after him, mouth running dry as Lonnie folded his belt over in his hand. </p><p>He heard Will stand up from his desk, already starting to stutter out excuses before the door to his room was thrown open.</p><p>“Did you not hear your brother?” That same, cold, collected voice.</p><p>“I-I… I-I was just—I was just d-drawing,” Will said. </p><p>At the same time, Jonathan tried to grab the belt out of his father’s hand only to end up smacked so hard across the face that his ears started to ring. His father said something, his words a much louder, angry roar while Will’s soft voice trilled under it—apologies, maybe? Jonathan, for a moment, couldn’t hear. </p><p>“Your brother’s made breakfast! While your ass is sitting in here screwing around, it’s out there getting cold!” Lonnie shouted, as if he gave a damn about the breakfast.</p><p>“Dad, it’s—it’s <i>fine,”</i> Jonathan said, straightening up while still holding his cheek. His <i>jaw</i> even ached from how hard he’d been hit. Maybe he hadn’t been slapped at all. Jonathan felt as if his father had punched him.</p><p>“No! No it is not fine!”</p><p>“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Jonathan. I-I should’ve—I should’ve put it away. I’m sorry!” Will was already in tears, his big eyes flicking between their father and Jonathan. </p><p>“Dad, really,” Jonathan begged, looking at the belt—scared to grab it again in fear Lonnie would break his jaw. “You don’t have to do this. Please!”</p><p>“No, he needs to learn to do as he’s told. On the bed.” Lonnie pointed with the belt and Will shivered all over, looking at him helplessly. He still had one of his crayons in his hand, clenched in his fist so tightly it had probably snapped in two. </p><p>“Dad, please. Let’s just go eat. He’s learned his lesson—he’s <i>scared.”</i></p><p>“Yeah, and he should be,” their father said, that deep and too-calm tone again despite his reddened face. He was scarier when he didn’t yell. It meant he was saving his energy for something much, much worse than yelling. “On the bed, Will! Assume the position.”</p><p>Will looked to Jonathan, his bottom lip trembling as tears beaded together to drip off his chin. He looked so scared, so shattered, and Jonathan couldn’t help him. He wasn’t strong enough. </p><p>“Don’t make me ask you again.”</p><p>Jonathan tried one last time to stop him and received another powerful blow to the cheek. He’d have bruises, he thought as he ran back to the kitchen. He’d have bruises and Will would have welts—</p><p>The first blow landed, sounding like a gunshot, and Will’s sharp cry of pain made Jonathan start crying. His little brother was in there getting beaten by a monster, and here he was digging burnt sausage out from under a burning hot coil of metal to keep the same treatment from happening to him. Another crack and another loud wail. </p><p>Maybe… Maybe Jonathan could sneak up on him and hit him over the head with the skillet. Sure, it’d just bring the attention onto him, but if Lonnie got a few hits in on Will already, he wouldn’t go back to him after he was done with Jonathan, would he? </p><p>Two more blows and Will was bawling. He was just a <i>little kid.</i> How could Lonnie do it? Yeah, he’d been late to the table. So what? He didn’t deserve this! </p><p>Jonathan ran out of things to distract himself—the food plated, a slice of American cheese tucked under Will’s scrambled eggs so it’d melt and maybe cheer him up, the skillet washed and tucked into the drying rack. Lonnie was still hitting him, scolding Will now while the boy sobbed. </p><p>The rage built more and more each time Jonathan heard the belt come down and strike his baby brother. He’d had at least ten. That was <i>more</i> than enough. He was a <i>little kid!</i> </p><p>Jonathan punched the table and went to the phone, breathing heavily and loudly, glaring at it as he tried to think of who to call—who would stop this? </p><p>The cops? They’d just laugh and hang up, thinking Jonathan was too young to tell the difference between discipline and torture. </p><p>The Wheelers? Ask for a ride to school and maybe...maybe get Mrs. Wheeler to help somehow.</p><p>Or he could call the store where his mom was, tell her what Lonnie was doing—tell her it was all her fault for leaving them alone with this awful man. But that wasn’t right, either. She was trying to pay the bills. She was trying to save up money for Christmas. She told him a hundred times she wouldn’t rely on Lonnie if she didn’t have to.</p><p>Jonathan scrubbed at his face as he heard his little brother get berated for crying, like Lonnie expected Will to be a man when he was only nine. He was in <i>third grade!</i> </p><p>Maybe he should just get a knife and stab him while he was distracted… He wanted to, but deep down, Jonathan knew he didn’t have the guts to do it. He was as pathetic and spineless as his father always said.</p><p>- - - </p><p>Will wanted his dad to like him. He knew the man didn’t, not even a little bit, because he was bad at t-ball and took too long learning how to ride a bike. His dad wanted him to be good at sports, to stop drawing and pick up a football. That was why his stupid idea to draw his dad a picture of the two of them playing catch was a dumb idea.</p><p>He’d started it the night before, but almost got caught being up past bedtime and had to hurry to turn out his lamp and dive under his covers. Will had thought he’d just wake up earlier and finish it. He usually woke up when Mom’s alarm went off in the other room and dozed a little bit longer if he didn’t have schoolwork or a drawing to start. Only this morning, the shouting started as soon as his mom went into the living room where Dad was sleeping. </p><p>Will didn’t know why they were fighting, but deep down he worried that it was because of him. Money was tight, his mom always said, and Will had been told that kids were expensive. There were many things Will didn’t understand, but it didn’t take a genius to connect these dots.</p><p>He’d been born and he was too expensive, so Mom and Dad started fighting. Mom liked him. Dad didn’t… </p><p>Dad didn’t seem to like Jonathan much either, but maybe that was Will’s fault too. </p><p>Whenever Dad was around, everything felt like Will’s fault—no matter how much Jon and Mom tried to tell him otherwise. </p><p>Will thought maybe if he could make Dad like him, things would go back to...well, not normal, but how they were <i>supposed</i> to be. Like Mike’s family. Maybe he could get a job or something and then Mom wouldn’t have to work and Dad wouldn’t be angry all the time. </p><p>So he’d started up on his drawing again in the morning, trying to get the colors in the sunset right—trying to make sure the logo on the jersey he was drawing looked like the one for his dad’s favorite team. </p><p>He got dressed when Jonathan told him to, then became completely engrossed in his picture. In his daydream. Maybe if he practiced in the backyard after school every day, he could get good at baseball. Jonathan would play with him if he asked. He could get really good, maybe, good like he was at drawing, and his dad would come to his games. </p><p>Jonathan came to tell him to hurry up, but Will was almost done so he didn’t pay him much attention. Just a few more colors. He wanted this one to look really good. It was <i>special.</i> It was a drawing for his Dad. </p><p>He was just about finished, almost satisfied with his work, when he heard commotion in the hallway. Jonathan was pleading with their dad… Dad was stomping and Will heard the sharp jingling of the buckle of his belt. </p><p>No! <i>No, no!</i> </p><p>Will stood up quickly, hand constricting around the blue crayon he’d been using—holding it for dear life. </p><p>What should he do? What did he do?</p><p>Will was paralyzed with fear, staring at his bedroom door as it burst open to reveal his father—red in the face with his belt folded over his hand—and Jonathan, shaking and babbling.</p><p>“Did you not hear your brother?” His dad asked, his voice scary calm. The way it always was right before he hurt them. </p><p>“I-I… I-I was just—I was just d-drawing,” Will cried, tears he wasn’t supposed to shed welling up quickly. He’d get spanked harder if he cried.</p><p>All of a sudden, their dad turned on Jonathan. His hand cracked against Jonathan’s face so hard he stumbled over and hit his head on the door frame. Will choked on his cry of fear, scared—even as Jonathan straightened himself up—that Jonathan had been badly hurt. You could die if you hit your head too hard. That was why you were supposed to wear helmets when you rode bikes—though Dad said helmets were for little girls and babies. </p><p>“You were drawing!? Are you kidding me, Will?” Dad shouted, tightening his hold on the belt. </p><p>“I m-made you a-a picture—”</p><p>“Your brother’s made breakfast! While your ass is sitting in here screwing around, it’s out there getting cold!” </p><p>“Dad, it’s—it’s <i>fine,”</i> Jonathan was trying to defend him, even as a dark red mark was spreading across his cheek beneath his hand. It was Will’s fault. Jonathan was hurt and it was Will’s fault. </p><p>“No! No it is not fine!” And Dad was right. Dad was <i>always</i> right...especially about Will.</p><p>“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Jonathan. I-I should’ve—I should’ve put it away. I’m sorry!” Will felt everything as if it were happening in slow motion, dread and fear making him sick to his stomach. He passed one last, pleading glance to Jonathan—as if his big brother could really do anything to save him from the trouble he’d gotten himself in.</p><p>“Don’t make me ask you again,” his father growled. It was a voice more frightening than any horror movie monster or villain. Scarier than the creatures in his nightmares that taunted him from under his bed and in his closet.</p><p>Dad smacked Jonathan again and Will felt himself yanked forward toward the bed, as if pulled by an invisible thread. His feet carried him automatically to his bed as his father told him. </p><p>It wasn’t so bad if he didn’t fight. That was one of the lessons Jonathan had taught him. It wasn’t as bad if you just did what he said. If you couldn’t run and you couldn’t hide, just do what Dad said.</p><p>Jonathan was gone now, leaving just Will and his father alone. It was better that way because then Jonathan wouldn’t see him crying, too. </p><p>“Pants down. I’m not having your mother bitch at me because I wore out the seat of your jeans. Come on. I’m not asking twice.” It was that same, scary voice—making Will’s joints seize up like concrete. It was so hard to do as he was told, but moving too slowly earned him the first, burning strike across his bottom. “Now!”</p><p>Will dropped the crayon he’d been gripping onto, the pieces of it crumbling and falling onto the floor as he did as he was told.</p><p>It wasn’t as bad if you did as you were told…</p><p>But it was still really, <i>really</i> bad.</p><p>He didn’t know how many times his dad hit him, but his skin felt as if it was on fire. He had cried so hard he could barely breathe, his nose stuffy and his eyes burning. Again and again, the belt cracked against him—loud, like the fireworks they set off together on the Fourth of July.</p><p>Fireworks, he thought.</p><p>Fireworks, fireworks.</p><p>His dad liked fireworks, too. Maybe he should’ve put fireworks in the drawing instead of a sunset. </p><p>Will was in so much pain, he didn’t even realize it had stopped until his father’s powerful voice boomed over his dizzying sobs. </p><p>“—for this!? You’ve wasted a perfectly good breakfast so you could sit in here and work on this sissy shit?” </p><p>Will was slowly straightening himself up, shaking as he fixed his jeans—feeling lightheaded, like he’d fall over at any second. </p><p>And then the drawing he’d spent so much time on was ripped in half in front of him. </p><p>“You should be <i>playing</i> sports, not sitting in here doodling about them. What, do you write about it in your journal, too? Like a little fucking girl?” On and on, his father scolded him while Will stared down at the two halves of his picture that now laid on the floor at his dad’s feet. </p><p>His heart stayed there with them, even as he washed his face and sat slowly, painfully down in his seat next to Jonathan. </p><p>“You eat every last bite or we’re going back in your room. You hear?” </p><p>Will gave an automatic, “Yes, sir,” and picked up his fork.</p><p>“I, uh, put some cheese in your eggs for you. I heated it up, but let me know if it’s still cold, okay?” Jonathan said, putting a hand on his back. Will felt guilty for flinching, but the pain from just moving in his seat quickly overtook the shame. </p><p>“Quit babying him,” their dad barked, his mouth full of food.</p><p>“I’m <i>not.”</i> Jonathan’s face was red, not just from being smacked either. Will, for a moment, was scared of him, too. </p><p>He forced forkful after forkful of food into his mouth, not even tasting it—nearly choking on it as his eyes watched the clock. </p><p>They were going to be late for school again.</p><p>- - - </p><p>Jonathan was moody and Will absolutely silent as Joyce picked them up from school. Jonathan, she thought, might be mad at her from the night before. Which was fair, and she understood it. She hated how rough Lonnie got with Jonathan, but Lonnie had a point when he said kids needed to learn how to speak to their parents.</p><p>It wouldn’t be such a big deal if Jonathan didn’t get in trouble at school the week before for yelling at one of his teachers. Lonnie called it ‘a problem with authority,’ like he had no idea where Jonathan got it from.</p><p>Will, though… She didn’t know why Will was upset.</p><p>“How was art class?” She asked him, looking in the rear view mirror as she drove. Will hadn’t answered when she asked about his day in general, but she hoped asking about his favorite class might perk him up. It didn’t, though, and it made her heart sink.</p><p>Jonathan turned in his seat to look back at Will who had his head resting against the window, eyes downcast. He didn’t say anything, just looked at him sullenly, then turned to sit forward in his seat again.</p><p>“Did something happen, Will?” She pressed, hoping that he’d just gotten a bad grade on a test or something. Lonnie used to really ride him about his grades, even though he was still so little. </p><p>Lonnie liked to be tough on Will for everything. It made her sick. </p><p>“Will, sweetie, did something happen today?” Their eyes met through the mirror and Joyce’s chest ached when it looked like Will was about to start crying. She looked away at the same time as Will, refocusing on the road while her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. </p><p>Again, Jonathan turned around in his seat to look back at Will. </p><p>“Do you want me to—”</p><p>“No,” Will said, his voice low and shaky. </p><p>“What?” Joyce asked, looking from Jonathan to Will and back to the road. “Want you to what? What’s going on with you guys?” </p><p>“Nothing, Mom,” Jonathan said, turning back around in his seat. This time, as he did, Joyce caught sight of the dark bruise on his cheek. </p><p>“Hey! What happened to your face? Jonathan, what happened to your face?” She looked from him to the road and back again, thankful for the red light so she could turn and reach for her son’s chin. He didn’t resist as she turned his head to face her. “Who did that?”</p><p>“No one. It’s nothing,” Jonathan argued, jerking away.</p><p>“It’s nothing!? What happened to your face?” She asked, anxiety gnawing away at her chest. More bullies, she wondered—like the one’s who’d been tormenting Will? </p><p>Why her sons, she wondered. Why her boys? Because they were <i>nicer</i> than everyone else?</p><p>“Mom, the light’s green!” Jonathan snapped when she continued staring at him in worry. </p><p>The rest of the ride home was silent, Joyce’s eyes flicking constantly to Will who was crying—who cringed and very nearly sobbed when their car struck a pothole on the road up to the house. Red hot anger started to brew in her gut, her fingers tightening around the wheel again as her lips pressed tight into a wrathful grimace.</p><p>Someone hurt him. Bullies or Lonnie—hell, they were basically the same damned thing. Lonnie was always so hard on Will… Sometimes, Joyce would go so far as to say he hated him. If she didn’t have to, she wouldn’t even have him around. Divorce was supposed to mean the end of things, but the bills kept piling up… Divorce had left her with so much debt and very few friends. She needed help getting Will and Jonathan to school in the mornings, and if not in the morning then picking them up after school. Jonathan could probably ride his bike, but she worried about Will. </p><p>That was what made him ‘soft,’ Lonnie said. She worried about him too much. </p><p>But he was so small, he’d been so fragile when he was born. She just wanted to keep him safe. Seeing him hurt, seeing him like he was now in the back of her car, cut her heart to pieces. </p><p>Once they were home, Will moved slowly and with his head down to go inside. He took his shoes off without being prompted and then scurried off to his room before Jonathan had even set down his book bag.</p><p>“Jonathan, did something happen this morning?” Joyce asked, trying to keep her whirlpool of anger and anxiety from coming through in her voice. </p><p>“You mean besides Lonnie beating Will? No, nothing happened.” He jerked away from her when she tried to touch him, leaving his things by the door as he hurried after Will. </p><p>For a moment, she just stood there in shock. Her body felt both burning hot and freezing cold, her teeth grinding together as she thought about Will—her baby—choking back that tiny sob after she hit that pothole. He’d been beaten this morning and was still in so much pain from it that he cried on the ride home from school. He’d spent <i>all day</i> sitting in hard seats, probably not even able to focus on his lessons because he hurt so much.</p><p>Joyce knew why, too. Because she’d made Lonnie go easy on Jonathan last night—because she wasn’t about to let him hit as hard as he’d tried. She didn’t know what excuse Lonnie made up to hit him, but Will could <i>never</i> have done <i>anything</i> to deserve what he’d gotten. </p><p>These were their <i>sons,</i> their <i>children.</i> Will was only <i>nine years old!</i></p><p>Joyce stormed over to the phone, seeing the numbers through a haze of red. She was breathing harder and harder as she listen to each ring, nearly growling by the time Lonnie picked up the phone.</p><p>“Do you want to explain to me why our son was <i>crying</i> when I picked him up from school today!?” She snapped before he could even finish saying ‘hello.’</p><p>He sighed as if she annoyed him, as if this whole thing were beneath him—as if he didn’t beat his own nine-year-old son so badly that he was still in tears from it hours later. “Because he’s a sissy?”</p><p>The comment left her mouth hanging open, hatred coursing through her so strongly it almost took the air out of her lungs. </p><p>“Excuse me!?”</p><p>“Oh, come on, Joyce. You let those kids walk all over you! He’s doing it for attention!”</p><p>“Will is nine years old! <i>Nine</i> years old, Lonnie! What the hell were you thinking!?” </p><p>He made up some excuse, his volume growing louder and louder until they were both screaming over top each other. Music turned on in Jonathan’s bedroom, the volume trying to compete with her yelling. </p><p>“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I will <i>never</i> leave you alone with my sons again! Do you hear me, Lonnie!? Not <i>ever</i> again!”</p><p>“Oh, sure. Yeah, and how do you plan to pay the water bill, Joyce? Or the electricity? You think I didn’t notice all your past due bills? Good luck keeping the lights on without my help! You know you need me, Joyce! You can’t take care of those damned kids on your own!”</p><p>She hated him. She hated that she was afraid he might be right. </p><p>But even so, Will was better off eating meals by candlelight than he was being terrorized by this monster.</p><p>“That ten dollars, Joyce? That’s the last handout you’re <i>ever</i> getting from me!”</p><p>“It’s not a handout when it pays for your own goddamned kids!” She screamed, shouting over whatever Lonnie tried to say in retort—roaring in hurt and frustration before slamming the phone back onto the hook and sinking down to the floor.</p><p>It rang almost immediately. </p><p>Again and again until Lonnie gave up.</p><p>Joyce stayed on the floor, her head in her shaking hands, until she felt she had herself under control. It could’ve been minutes, maybe hours. The music coming to her from down the hall hadn’t stopped, but the volume decreased little by little over time. </p><p>She stepped into the bathroom to rinse her face, the cool water bringing her back down to earth—putting her back in her body before she went to face her sons. </p><p>They were huddled together in Jonathan’s room, laying side by side on his bed talking about something—perhaps the tape that was playing—until they saw her come in. </p><p>Jonathan looked at her warily, like he didn’t trust her. Will wouldn’t look at her at all. He seemed to shrink in on himself, then curled up even more so when she sat down near him on the bed. </p><p>“Will, sweetie, can you look at me, please?” She said, her voice still raw from shouting. She placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently until he rolled onto his back. When his eyes met hers, Joyce’s heart broke all over again. He looked <i>afraid</i> of her, like he thought he was in trouble with her the way he was with his dad. “You know I’m not upset at you, right? That you’re not in any trouble?”</p><p>Will looked to Jonathan who shifted around uncomfortably and then got up from the bed. He turned off the stereo that had been playing, then slowly exited the room, pausing in the doorway a moment before sighing and stepping into the hall. </p><p>“Please talk to me, sweetie. I promise I’m not mad at you. What Dad did was wrong. It was wrong, and I’m so, so sorry, sweetie.” She petted his hair and kissed his forehead, uttered more and more apologies while Will just stared up at her with his big eyes rimmed with tears. </p><p>“Dad hates me,” he choked out, his lip quivering as the tears rolled down his cheeks. </p><p>“No, no—he doesn’t hate you. How could anyone hate you?” She asked, hurrying to brush the tears away. She wished she could sit him up and hold him, but she didn’t want to move him in any way that might hurt. </p><p>“He ripped my picture.” Whether that was Will’s idea of proof or a new topic altogether, Joyce didn’t know—but it was the final straw. The way his voice trembled as he said it, all of his heartbreak evident on his face and in his tone, made her heart ache even worse. What a cruel, senseless thing to do to a little boy. Will loved his drawings, he was <i>good</i> at it and usually very <i>proud</i> of it.</p><p>“We’ve got some of that clear tape. I bet Jonathan could put it back together for you—”</p><p>“I made it for Dad. He ripped it. He didn’t like it, Mom. He <i>hates</i> me.”</p><p>Joyce couldn’t say anything, too many knives stuck in her chest—determined to shred what was left of her heart. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she would just scream, or burst out sobbing. She needed to be strong for Will. She needed to put on a brave face and make him feel warm again, make him know beyond any shadow of a doubt that <i>she</i> loved him, that <i>she</i> would never hurt him on purpose like that. </p><p>Once she had herself under control again, Joyce leaned down to kiss his forehead while her thumb brushed more and more tears off his cheeks. “Then I’ll just have to love you twice as much to make up for it. How’s that?” He didn’t answer, but she didn’t expect him to. “And I <i>love</i> your pictures. Everyone at work always tells me how talented you are.”</p><p>“Really?” Will asked, voice still shaky though a bit of light had come back to his eyes.</p><p>“Oh, yes! Of course! All the kids your age are drawing stick figures. But not my son. <i>My</i> son’s got what it take to be the next great comic book artist. First one in Hawkins history!” </p><p>A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Will’s lips, so Joyce went on and on. Eventually, she got him to talk about school and art class, about how Mike gave him his whole snack bag of Pringles at lunch because he could tell Will was sad. </p><p>“With all those Pringles in your belly, are you even going to have room for dinner?” She asked him. She had come to lay at his side, moving so his head was resting against her shoulder and she could have her arms around him in a protective embrace. </p><p>“Yes!” Will said, enthusiastically—like he was starving.</p><p>“And what do you want for dinner? If you could have <i>anything</i> in the world, what would it be?” With Will, it was either going to be grilled cheese or pizza. He loved both and she had the stuff to make grilled cheese and coupons for pizza tucked in with the mail.</p><p>“Uh… Pizza, I guess. But anything sounds good.” He tipped his head back to look at her and she smiled at him as warmly as she could. His eyes were still dull, but he was smiling a little bit. It’d take days for that light to come back completely, but Joyce was determined to protect it at all costs this time.</p><p>“Pizza? What kind of pizza?”</p><p>“Pepperoni?”</p><p>“Just pepperoni? No sausage?” Joyce frowned as Will went back to looking far away and sad.</p><p>“No. Not sausage. Just pepperoni.” </p><p>“Just pepperoni… Okay. How about I order us a <i>big</i> pepperoni pizza and some soda to wash it down?”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Would you like that?” She smiled at Will and he nodded. She wished there was more she could do than offer him pizza. It almost felt like a bribe...or maybe that was just Lonnie’s voice in her head trying to make her feel guilty, feel like a bad mother.</p><p>She left Will in Jonathan’s room and went to get the coupons from the pile of bills Lonnie had snooped through. The two five dollar bills which laid on top of the stack made her stomach roil with hatred. The fact that the pizza coupons were missing made it worse. </p><p>Every button she pressed to dial the pizza place was an imaginary knife going into Lonnie’s chest. Maybe it was hysteria or maybe she’d just completely lost her mind. Joyce didn’t know. She saw that money laying there and heard Lonnie’s voice echoing in her head. </p><p>“That ten dollars, Joyce? That’s the last handout you’re <i>ever</i> getting from me!”</p><p>Handout? Joyce Byers didn’t need a handout. She and her boys would make do just fine, without Lonnie’s “help.”</p><p>She ordered the pizza, but not just that. She ordered garlic bread and desserts and soda for all three of them. May it look like the Byers won the lottery tonight, she thought.</p><p>The bills could wait. She had them under control anyway.</p><p>“Handout,” she muttered to herself. It wasn’t a handout, it was something for him to hold over her head—make her think she still needed him around. </p><p>If all he was going to do was steal coupons and throw around cash and <i>hurt</i> their sons—no...<i>her</i> sons, then she didn’t need him. Not for rides to school, not to babysit—not for anything.</p><p>She and her boys were better off on their own.</p>
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